


End of the Road

by sirenalley



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Lots of kissing, M/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenalley/pseuds/sirenalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of Mizuki knows he should fuck off while he’s ahead, because he thinks he has a good idea what’s down this road. Too bad it’s never stopped him before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of the Road

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this takes place after Aoba loses his memories as Sly Blue, when he first meets Mizuki and before he gets his shit together, and then on from there. Might be a slight deviation from canon, I'm kinda hazy on the timeline. I just have a lot of Mizuki feelings.

Seven years ago, the Black Needle went by a different name—Yoki—and Mizuki didn’t own it. It was a novelty store at the corner of two streets and it was losing business, but still drew in a small throng of dedicated customers. Mizuki used to hang around on weekends when he wasn’t busy bruising his fists in territorial fights. The owner, an old man everyone called Mister Hajime, gave him things free of charge: little glass figurines, charms, candy, pretty colored paper to draw on. Mizuki was his favorite customer. At least, he liked to think so. 

Mister Hajime lived in the back area, and on nights when Mizuki had nowhere else to go, he slept on the couch there.

As Toue’s influence expanded across the island like a sinister black cloud, monopolizing business through privatization, Mister Hajime could no longer afford to keep Yoki open. Tourists weren’t interested. It could not compete with Platinum Jail’s illustrious lure. Those white walls rose like a gate to heaven, a gate to depthless pleasure and satisfaction—“the ultimate getaway, the ideal resort”—as some journalists wrote on the daily news page. To Mizuki those walls looked menacing and cold so high above his head. Like they wanted to keep him out. Or keep him _in_.

Mister Hajime gave Yoki to him. It was a rainy Sunday, and he was smiling when he held out the key ring to Mizuki with one hand, the other occupied by a small suitcase. He also gave Mizuki a sheaf of colored paper, which Mizuki used to draft the first designs for the interior of the Black Needle. Mister Hajime had a one-way ticket to the mainland and Mizuki knew he wouldn’t see him again.

It worked out anyway, because he’d started to build his own Rib team. Dry Juice would need somewhere to go that wasn’t a backalley hideout. 

And Mizuki wanted something else.

****

It’s a rainy Sunday when he lets Aoba into the Black Needle for the first time. Mizuki’s twenty-one now. He hasn’t known this kid long, but thinks he’s probably freshly eighteen. He has that look. Wide-eyed, haunted, a little angry, like he’s realizing how much he doesn’t like being older.

But as far as Mizuki knows, he could’ve had that look for years. 

What Mizuki _does_ know is Aoba doesn’t have anywhere to stay, has been bumming around the streets for a long time, before they ever met. He’d found him drunkenly wailing on a Dry Juice member—a nice guy named Aki, one of Mizuki’s oldest friends. Aki was only a bystander at the time for a larger fight between Aoba and some sour, vengeful Rhyme players. 

Mizuki managed to resolve it peacefully, but not before taking one of Aoba’s punches himself.

He could definitely hit. Mizuki’s cheek ached raw and purple for days. 

It’s been a few months since then. Mizuki wanted him in Dry Juice immediately, but the kid turned him down, continues to. It’s fine. He doesn’t think he’ll stop asking, but it’s more to tease Aoba than anything with real conviction now. 

“How do you like the place?” Mizuki says, closing the front door behind them. He flicks the switch next to the doorframe. The overhead spotlights bloom to life, illuminating the shop’s interior. 

“You live here?”

“Nah, I’ve got an apartment nearby. I mean, I used to. There’s a backroom, but that’s for customers now.” Mizuki crosses the shop to hit another switch, a blue globe lamp fixed to the ceiling illuminating the two red suede couches in the corner. A glorified waiting room next to a bar. “Want a tour? Or maybe a drink first?”

“A drink.” He’s eyeing the shelf of porcelain skulls next to the backroom with interest.

“Got it. Any requests?”

“Whatever’s fine.”

Mizuki moves around to the other side of the bar, choosing beer because he doesn’t feel completely comfortable shoveling hard liquor into this kid yet. Even if he’s seen him drunk a couple times since. 

He brings it back, watches Aoba sip at it with pursed lips against the rim. 

“Anyway,” Mizuki says, “you can have one of these couches tonight. The only other bed I’ve got is the one in the backroom, but that’s for work.”

“Why would I sleep there?”

“Just thought I’d offer. Speaking of, you sure you don’t want a tattoo?”

Aoba scoffs. It’s more a huff than anything, and it makes him look pouty, childish. “I don’t want one.” He takes his beer with him to the couch, curling up against the arm rest, pulling his knees up and setting his bag down on the table. He seems smaller like that, deflated from the moody rages he’s witnessed since they met, younger and… exhausted, a fatigue as deep as his bones. 

“I’ll get you some blankets.” Mizuki’s already walking to the closet in the back. “My apartment’s just around the corner, but you’ve got my contact number, so just give me a call if you need to.”

“’Kay,” Aoba says distantly. He looks like he’s trying to disappear into the couch with his beer, slouched in, head tipped forward. His hair shines silvery blue under the warm honey glow of the globe lamp. 

“And there’s some food in the fridge in the back. Help yourself. Just don’t help yourself to the beer. The harder stuff’s locked up anyway, so don’t even try that. I’ll notice if it goes missing.”

“’Kay,” Aoba says again, quieter.

“Hey, Aoba?”

At the silence, Mizuki gathers his pile and heads back to the couch to find him asleep, slumped against the armrest, beer loose in the clutch of his fingers.

Extracting the bottle, he drapes a blanket over him and leaves the pillow aside. Then he steps back, sighs, drags his fingers through his hair like he’s tempering a headache. 

“I’ll be back in the morning, so don’t go anywhere. Goodnight, Aoba.”

****

Of course, in the morning Aoba is gone. Mizuki’s less annoyed at the unlocked door of the shop than he expects to be, but there’s a kernel of disappointment instead. He’s not really sure why. He’s used to prickly kids like this.

But a part of Mizuki knows he should fuck off while he’s ahead, because he thinks he has a good idea what’s down this road. Too bad it’s never stopped him before. 

****

“Whoa, whoa, Aoba, calm down,” Aki is laughing as he dodges to the right, narrowly avoiding a crashed meeting with Aoba’s shoulder. “You’re totally wasted.”

“I’m not _wasted_ ,” Aoba drawls, and his enunciation really isn’t as bad as it could be. “It’s just, you know… s’not my fault you guys gave me that strong shit.”

“You’re right, it’s all on me.” Mizuki rubs his neck, genuinely guilty. “But I didn’t think you were such a _lightweight_ , Aoba.”

“Shut up!”

“Just don’t knock into anything valuable. Please,” Mizuki adds.

“I’ll knock into your stupid face.” Aoba sounds about as menacing as a righteously indignant three-year-old. Even Ren, Aoba’s puppy allmate, looks like he’s sighing from his diligent spot next to Aoba’s feet. 

“Okay, I get it.” He pats Aoba’s back as he passes him, his grin as mild as he can make it. He’s not _trying_ to laugh at Aoba’s expense, but it’s hard. “Be right back, you guys, I gotta grab something from the fridge.”

Mizuki heads into the backroom, feeling a little lightheaded due to his own drink intake, although not quite on the same level as Aoba. _Ah, youth._

The curtain rustles behind his back and he turns, hand still on the mini-fridge handle.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“You need something? Aoba, what— _whoa_!”

There are only a few short steps between the curtains and the fridge, and Aoba clears the distance in a calculated stumble. He steadies himself with his hands on Mizuki’s shoulders, then grabs the sides of his face and mashes their lips together in a hot, violent clash. Aoba clings onto his shoulders, kissing him like he’s trying to suck his soul out. All Mizuki registers is how soft his mouth is. 

Mizuki doesn’t possess the equilibrium to hold them and they sway dangerously backwards, his elbow taking out the steel tray of tools next to the fridge. It crashes to the floor with a raucous din that’s enough to rip Mizuki back into reality, caution and inhibition flagging him down from a weird, reverent high. He pushes Aoba off at the same moment Aki’s head appears through the slit in the curtains. Ren is right at his heels with a worried _Aoba_?

“You guys okay in here? Sounded like something broke…”

“Yeah, everything’s—”

“I tripped,” Aoba says as he pushes himself into a swaying stand. “I knocked some shit over. Sorry about the mess.”

He doesn’t even sound drunk, but he’s still unsteady, hand against the wall for support. Mizuki tries to get a good look at his face but he’s already whipping around.

Mizuki stays behind to clean up the tools, righting the tray, gathering what he needed from the fridge. By the time he returns to the front room, Aoba’s back to normal, scowling and complaining over the edge of a new glass of liquor. He doesn’t even look at Mizuki, which is fine.

****

He’s dealt with prickly kids like this before. Their mood swings aren’t new, and in fact they’re familiar to him, given the sort of people he’s taken under the wing of Dry Juice. That’s what his team is meant for: gathering a wayward group he can call family. That’s really what it’s all about. Aoba would be a great addition to his broken, carved out, self-made family. 

But there’s something… different about Aoba, and maybe that’s why he keeps saying _no_ to every joking offer of membership. Mizuki’s turned his requests into a joke because it doesn’t hurt to be turned down that way. When he doesn’t take himself seriously, he doesn’t take Aoba’s rejection seriously, even if he never stops asking. It’s nearly traditional. 

Mizuki knows he should give up, but there’s something _different_ about Aoba. 

It’s like he has this luminous pull, like he magnetizes people to him, but he’s spent so long pushing everyone away that he’s trapped himself in an unstable state of aloneness. He’s never thought Aoba wanted to be alone. Mizuki can tell genuine misanthropy from the miserable sulking of a delinquent who doesn’t know what else to do with himself, his anger, his moodiness. He hasn’t asked Aoba about his family or what happened to him, because it’s not his business, but he’s gleaned a few details. 

He thinks Aoba used to go by the Rhyme name _Sly Blue_. It really doesn’t take much detective work, considering the Rhyme players who target him now purely for revenge. Aoba never instigates those fights. He’s good at defending himself, but he never lashes out with true malicious intent. They’re just dogging him. 

But _Sly Blue_ is something else, an entity Mizuki doesn’t understand, like some urban legend that met its end in a mysterious way. No one’s ever given him a straight story. Even Aoba doesn’t seem to know, like he doesn’t get why people are coming after him, like he’s convinced it’s just the world at large that hates him. Maybe they’ve mistaken him as _Sly Blue_. Maybe _Sly Blue_ never actually existed. Mizuki doesn’t know, but it’s clear it was in the past. And he recognizes and understands Aoba’s desire to escape the past more than he has with anyone he’s ever met.

That’s what makes it dangerous, because Mizuki is assuming to know so much about a kid who acts like he doesn’t need his help. Mizuki just feels like he _resonates_ with Aoba.

And he’s terrified to get to the end of this road, terrified to discover it’s completely one-sided, but also aware it won’t be anything else. 

Sometimes Aoba wants to be alone for real, not the push-pull tide of his moods or whims, not the playful fights he has with Mizuki. Sometimes he just really wants the world to go away.

Mizuki gets that too. He leaves him alone, because he has those same moments. About once a week Mizuki locks up the shop, isolates himself in the backroom, and draws until his hand is numb. He sketches sheets and sheets of vague designs until his fingers are dark with lead. Once in a while he’ll like what he draws, but most of the time he ends up trashing everything he makes in those moments of solitude. He’s not proud of those creations when he feels like that. 

Maybe it’s the same for Aoba, too, although he doesn’t know what he does when he’s alone. He’s not sure he has a right to know.

****

If there’s something Mizuki makes a point to always have around, it’s the alcohol stocked in the shelves behind the bar. He does it to keep Dry Juice healthily relaxed, to foster an environment of safe drinking and friendliness, so they don’t wreak havoc somewhere else. He knows they’ll find alcohol one way or another. This is just the best alternative. 

A part of Mizuki unashamedly loves bringing everyone together. He hosts mini parties (more like relaxed hangouts) frequently at the shop. They still have their typical spot in the alley close to the street, so everyone knows this is Dry Juice territory. But the shop is where they come to drink. His door is never closed to a Dry Juice member who wants to talk to him for a while. Even when he needs to be alone, Mizuki will let them in, let them get whatever it is off their chest, let them wind down. 

He wouldn’t be much of a leader if he couldn’t do that.

While it’s not unusual for non-Dry Juice members to show up to these hangouts, Aoba is the only one who comes to every single one. He’s a regular face, almost “unofficial” Dry Juice given his fixture in the team. 

Mizuki’s not dumb. He knows they’re talking about it behind his back—not in a malevolent way, but observing his response to Aoba. His desire to have Aoba around is pretty clear to anyone paying attention. Even if it’s not clear to Mizuki himself.

The night’s toning down. It must be almost three in the morning. Most of the guys have trickled out, save for Aki and his girlfriend and a few stragglers chatting in the corner on the couches. Mizuki is cleaning up the bar, occasionally offering his own comedic interjections. 

Aoba is one of the stragglers. After a little while, he disengages himself from the group on the couch and plants himself at the bar, in front of Mizuki. 

“Hey,” Aoba says. The low spotlights over the bar make his hair a radiant blue halo. He’s always looked good in the light to Mizuki. It’s an attraction he’s trying to tamp down lately. 

“Hey yourself. You seem a little less wasted than earlier. The room not spinning anymore?”

“Wow, thanks.” Aoba folds his arms, chin on top. “I had a big meal. Sobered me up, I guess.”

“That’s good. Be careful not to eat too much though. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.”

“I didn’t.” His eyes seem a little unfocused, but a quick look and Mizuki doesn’t judge it at any fault of the alcohol. 

“You okay?”

“Just tired.”

Behind them, Aki stands from the couch, stretching his arms up with a groan. “Ugh—all right, we’re heading out.” His girlfriend moves to join him, and Aki waves. “See you tomorrow, Mizuki. Bye bye, Aoba.”

“See ya. Don’t sleep in, Aki, you’re gonna help me with the shop tomorrow, remember?”

“Got it, boss.”

The other guys go with them, almost obediently. Mizuki doesn’t think much of it.

“What about you?” he faces Aoba again. “Did you want to take the couch tonight or something?”

“… I guess,” Aoba says in that same distant tone. He’s acting very far away from the conversation, but it’s not exactly unusual. It could just be one of those moods. Then again, maybe it’s Mizuki’s fault—he’s only like this when it’s just them. He’s normal around the rest of the team.

Mizuki frowns, shutting the cabinet and clearing the last glasses from the bar top. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

“Mizuki?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Can I crash at your place?”

He falters, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, a nervous tic. “Uh, sure. You don’t want the couch here?”

“I always wake up with a sore neck.”

He doesn’t know what to say, because Aoba’s never made a request like this before, but he rolls with it. “… Okay. Just let me finish cleaning up and we’ll go.”

Ten minutes later, they’re walking out of the shop. The street outside is deserted and dark. They can’t see the moon, not with Platinum Jail towering in their peripheral like a manmade mountain, pale height cutting out most of the sky. They can’t see the stars either, but it’s been years since he set eyes on those—little glittering jewels a million lifetimes away. He only remembers that looking at them as a kid made him nauseated. 

They reach his apartment, and Mizuki realizes this is the first time Aoba’s ever seen it. His face burns with embarrassment. “Uh so, sorry about the mess, I haven’t really had a chance to clean up…” 

It’s dark inside, darker than outside. Aoba sets his bag by the door. Mizuki’s got his hand on the light switch when he’s driven against the doorframe at an awkward angle, striking his shoulder with a yelp. Aoba is pushing him back. His hands cup Mizuki’s face like they did that time in the shop. He’s kissing him just as violently.

Mizuki head slams back against the door, eyes wide in the dark. “A-Aoba, whoa, hold on—what are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” Aoba says. “Just kiss me back.”

“Aoba, wait a second—”

“Shut up, I mean it. Kiss me, okay?”

“Are you drunk?” Mizuki squints in the dimness, trying to make out his face. He doesn’t look drunk. His mouth only has a faint remnant of alcoholic flavor, mostly it tastes like stale spit. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Aoba’s still cupping his head, his thumbs against Mizuki’s cheeks, staring straight into his eyes. “I want you to kiss me.”

Mizuki is certain he’s making one of the worst mistakes in his life, which says a lot, because he’s not proud of everything he’s done. But something selfish surges in him. He’s really started to like this moody kid. 

He’s _so_ fucked.

“Okay,” Mizuki says in one breath. “But I’m not doing it against the door, Aoba. Let go for a sec.”

Aoba obeys, watching him. He leaves the lights off and tugs on Aoba’s elbow. He instinctively turns toward the bedroom, but decides against it because of the implications. It’s not like Aoba was saying _fuck me_ , just _kiss me_ , which are two completely different things. And he’s not even sure if this is as serious to Aoba as it feels to him. Maybe he’s making it all up in his head. Maybe Aoba just wants to mess around and waste time.

… Maybe he’s thinking too much.

Mizuki steers him toward the couch, plants his knee on the cushion and leans back, pulling Aoba down on top of him. Aoba spreads his knees and settles onto his lap, angling his body forward, hair spilling over his shoulder. Mizuki touches his cheek, then lets his fingers stroke back, threading into his hair.

A violent shudder goes through Aoba and he recoils, snatching Mizuki’s wrist to yank it down. “Don’t touch my hair.”

Wow, he’s off to a great start. “Sorry.”

“… It’s okay.”

He cups Aoba’s face and swallows hard at the closeness, captivated by the heartbreaking symmetry of Aoba’s face and the bow of his lips, the vague dreamy look in his eyes that doesn’t seem to go away. He remembers how soft his mouth was. It’s too easy to lean in for another kiss, almost like he’s learned how to do it now. He doesn’t employ the same violence as Aoba’s initiations, and he even squeezes Aoba’s jaw when he feels him try to deepen it roughly. 

If nothing else, Mizuki can show him how to kiss properly. He doesn’t know who this kid has kissed in the past, and it doesn’t really make a difference, but he can tell he’s not accustomed to anything milder. 

Mizuki gently slots their mouths together and keeps his face between the open palms of his hands. He feathers his lips across Aoba’s, soft grazing passes before he withdraws, so they’re inhaling each other’s breath. It makes him lightheaded. He can’t believe how long he’s wanted to do this.

Aoba makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tries to push forward again, but Mizuki squeezes his jaw. “It feels like you’re trying to bite me.”

“Maybe I like biting.”

“Let me kiss you, okay?”

Somehow it’s gone from Aoba demanding to Mizuki asking.

He angles their mouths together again, this time swiping the tip of his tongue across Aoba’s lower lip. He does it again, getting it wet, then ventures for entrance to the hot space beyond with careful licks of his tongue. Aoba moans when he opens his mouth—the vibration throbs straight through Mizuki to his dick. He’s hard so fast he’s embarrassed, but when Aoba feels it, he just rolls his hips into his lap.

Mizuki wraps an arm around his waist to still him when he tries to do it again. 

“What the hell?” Aoba gusts the complaint through his teeth.

“I thought we were just kissing, Aoba.”

“I know.”

 _Shit_.

Aoba does it again, grinding into his lap as they return to the kiss. He’s completely helpless to it. He’s careful to avoid Aoba’s hair when he cradles his face, fingers trailing down his throat to hold his shoulders, rolling his palms into the muscles there, tight circles of pressure through the fabric of his shirt. Aoba’s always been tense in his neck. Why is he paying attention to that?

The kissing goes on and on until Mizuki’s mouth is sore from it. He maintains that gentleness, but he can’t tame Aoba’s own edge, how he continues to suck Mizuki’s lip between his blunt teeth. He doesn’t think he _wants_ to. Their tongues slide together, hot and slippery, grazing gums and the roofs of mouths in occasional flicks. Each time it happens, his stomach clenches with jolts of heat and butterflies. 

Aoba doesn’t stop rubbing all over his lap, angling his hips like he’s done this before, he probably has, or maybe he’s just good at improvisation. Mizuki eventually gets a good grip on his waist and helps him, a cracked whimper lost in the scalding lock of their sore mouths. 

When he feels fingers working open the front of his jeans, his whole body jerks. “Aoba—”

Aoba aligns their mouths, swallowing the sound, and Mizuki falls apart when that hand closes around his cock. He doesn’t last long when Aoba twists his wrist, rubbing the heel of his palm over the tip in little tugs, thumb against the slit. They’re still kissing when he comes in a rush that soaks Aoba’s fingers, some of it smeared over his stomach. He shudders, his head against the back of the couch, his eyes shut through the descending high.

They watch each other in the dark as Mizuki’s breath regulates, his hands rubbing over Aoba’s back, dragging down to squeeze his ass. “Want me to do you too?”

“’Kay,” Aoba says, his voice thick, almost sleepy, leaning to kiss Mizuki again.

He lets his hand drift around to the front of Aoba’s body, cupping the hardness between his legs. He rubs, fingers tracing the outline of his cock through his pants, enough to make Aoba’s mouth open around those soft, whining sounds Mizuki never expected. 

When Mizuki jerks him off, he’s much slower about it, memorizing the arch of Aoba’s cock against his belly, the heat of it in the palm of his hand. He can feel Aoba’s pulse, the fluttering stutter between his fingers, like he’s holding his heart. He works him up carefully, then closes his grip in a tight circle at the base, venturing under to his cup his balls, then back up in a lazy stroke. Aoba almost thrashes on top of him, face buried in the crook of his neck, his knees around his hips. He starts saying _please_ —and that’s as far as Mizuki can go.

He holds Aoba’s through his orgasm, gentle fingers on his dick through the shivery, sensitive moments after. Aoba doesn’t lift his face from his shoulder. 

There’s a sheltered intimacy in the dark of his apartment. It almost feels like this moment isn’t real. 

Their frantic urgency has begun to cool. His clean hand settles on Aoba’s lower back, fingers tracing the strip of skin between his shirt and jeans.

“I’ll get something to clean up with,” he says at last, unable to take the swelling silence. “Can you sit back?”

Aoba protests with a noise, but does as he asks and Mizuki climbs up to stand, wincing at how messy he feels.

In the bathroom, Mizuki stares at his own reflection for a while. He doesn’t turn the lights on, letting the darkness stay, not wanting that bright interruption of reality. It still feels like a dream. He wonders if this was okay. He wonders if he should even be worried.

When he comes back with a towel, Aoba’s already asleep, curled up on the couch just like that first night at the Black Needle. 

****

Aoba was gone the next morning, but he can’t blame him. 

They don’t talk about it. Mizuki doesn’t have the guts to bring it up, but that’s nothing, considering his own inability to say what he means when it matters. He’s terrified of that vulnerability—of losing something that matters, like Aoba’s fragile friendship. He sometimes catches the looks Aoba gives him, a quick glance from the corners of his eyes, but they steer clear of the conversation.

A week and a half later, Aoba disappears. It’s not unusual, but Mizuki feels nauseated by it, like there’s a hook twisted in his gut.

He finds out later Aoba was taken in by the police after being cornered by a group of guys, the same ones claiming retribution. Mizuki is sick with worry. But he doesn’t think he has a right to go looking. Doesn’t know where he’d _start_.

Another week after that, Aoba walks into the Black Needle. Mizuki recognizes the shift instantly. It’s like a weight has lifted from Aoba’s shoulders.

He’s calmer, not as anxious or angry, that haunted look gone from his eyes. 

“Hey,” Aoba says with some hesitance.

“Hey yourself.” But Mizuki smiles, even if it feels difficult to muster. He circles around the front desk to come closer. “Hey there,” he says to the bundle of blue at Aoba’s feet.

“Hello, Mizuki,” Ren says.

“Where the hell have you _been_?”

“Were you worried?” Aoba reciprocates the smile, and _that’s_ different too. “Sorry, I probably owe you an explanation… things have been pretty crazy. I didn’t get a chance to come by.”

“Are you okay, at least?”

“Yeah, I’m fine now. I’m… a lot better. I’m staying with my grandma again. After the police took me home, it was the first time I’d seen her in a while, at least since I started screwing around, so…”

 _You never mentioned her_ , he doesn’t say. _But it’s not like I ever asked_. His stomach tightens around an imperceptible feeling. “That’s good. I bet she’s relieved.”

“She is, I’m really lucky she even let me come back.” Aoba laughs in a voice Mizuki’s never heard before. It’s like he’s a different person, but Mizuki hangs onto a few familiar signs—the hesitance, the thoughtful looks. Aoba’s still trying to hold himself together. “I’m really sorry if I made you worry.”

Mizuki shakes his head. “Just be more careful from now on. You know you’re always welcome here, Aoba.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Oh, hey, I got a job. It’s at this ice cream place down the street. You should come by sometime.”

“Sure, I will.” He claps Aoba on the back. “It’ll be fun seeing you try to hold an actual _job_.”

“Wow, way to have faith in me. I’m totally capable of scooping ice cream for little kids, you know!”

“I give you a week.”

“Asshole,” Aoba shoves him, playfully.

“You can always come join Dry Juice if you get fired.”

“No way. I’m trying to be an adult here!”

Mizuki laughs, turning away. 

“Aoba, if you do not leave soon you will be late on your first day,” Ren says from the floor. Mizuki is glad for the interruption.

“Shit! I’ll have to come by later, sorry about this, Mizuki…”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Go be an adult.” 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you. We have a lot of stuff to catch up on, huh?”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” he says, waving Aoba off. “It can wait.”

****

It does wait, and for a very long time. They don’t stop being friends with each other, but Mizuki’s never that aware of what’s going on in Aoba’s life, and Aoba’s never aware of what’s going on in his. Aoba hangs out with Dry Juice less and less, unable to make time as he drifts from one part-time job to another in search of stability. 

It’s impressive. Mizuki is proud of him.

But it hurts, he just doesn’t know how to say that part. He liked taking care of Aoba when he could, when Aoba needed his help, but he knew how to back off. He knows how to back off now, because Aoba’s learning to take care of himself, and that’s more important than anything. 

He was only dreaming something else, something they would never talk about. He’s at the end of the road and it’s exactly what he expected but it still hurts like hell. 

****

A few years later, Mizuki sits across from Aki and his world spins out of his control. Aki keeps dodging his eyes, rubbing his head, rubbing his Dry Juice tattoo, nervous energy rolling off him. Mizuki tries to swallow but can’t manage past the tightness wedged in the back of his throat. It burns a little.

“So what, you’re done? That’s _it?_ Aki, we’ve been together for _years_ —”

“It’s not like I want to quit, but there’s no one else around anymore. It’s pretty much just down to you and me, Mizuki. I just think it’d be better if Dry Juice could formally end, you know, so maybe it’d give some closure…”

“I’m not _ending_ Dry Juice! We’re not the only ones left. We still have members, and I’ll get more, you know I will.”

Aki looks at him, but there’s a sad cast to it. “Listen, I know you want to, and I believe you… but it’s hard to compete against Rhyme these days. It just keeps getting bigger. Even the guys left are playing it when they’re not here. They just don’t wanna say it to your face.” 

Mizuki leans back against the suede couch. He drags his hands through his hair, over and over.

“It’s not such a bad thing,” Aki goes on. “I mean, it’s gotta end someday, right? We can’t keep playing Rib for the rest of our lives. We’ve gotta get real jobs, move on with our lives, settle down… I’m sure that’s what everyone’s thinking.”

“So they go and join _Rhyme_?”

“That’s not what I meant. People just move on.”

“You don’t get it,” Mizuki says. His voice is thin and gravely. “It’s not a game to me. It’s not a _stepping stone_ or a stupid hobby. I wanted… I…”

In the end, he can’t even say it to Aki.

 _I wanted a family_.

After Aki leaves, Mizuki spends a long time in the empty shop, uselessly sorting papers, uselessly cleaning, something to make himself feel better. _Something_ to flare inspiration. He has no idea how he’s going to find more people to join Dry Juice. He has no idea if he even wants to, when every loss feels as bad as this does, like losing a brother. It could all happen again. Maybe he was stupid, hoping he could maintain Dry Juice on his own, hoping he would have these friendships for the rest of his life. It seems like a silly, idyllic, childish dream now. 

Mizuki draws in the backroom until his hand is aching and sore, fingertips smeared with lead. He stacks the fresh sketches into a neat pile, then dumps them in the bin on the way out the front door.

He turns the key in the lock mechanically.

“Hello, would you happen to be the owner of this shop—Mizuki?”

At the sound of his name, he turns, expression pinching with confusion. He’s seen these two men somewhere before, but he’s not sure if he’s met them himself. The vague nostalgia swims in the back of his mind.

“Sorry, we’re closed right now.”

“That’s fine. We really only wanted to talk to you. As long as you have the time to spare, of course. We’ll be brief.”

****

Mister Hajime dropped the key to Yoki in the center of his palm, then closed Mizuki’s fingers around it, smiling gently. “Do you promise to use this shop for that dream of yours, Mizuki?”

“Yes sir,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know what _else_ I’d do with it.”

“And do you promise to always be true to your feelings?”

Mizuki hesitated. It wasn’t the first time Mister Hajime had asked that question, and it wasn’t the first time he wrangled for an answer. He didn’t really understand what it meant. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. So how do you feel right now, Mizuki?”

He wanted to say plenty of different things. He wanted to say he was happy, because he now held the key to his future, or at least the steps necessary to carve out his dream. He wanted to say he was nervous, because he didn’t know the first thing about owning a shop by himself. He wanted to say he was cold because of the rain, but that was the cheeky reply, the easy one.

“Sad,” Mizuki finally said. “Because you’re leaving, and I don’t want you to go.”


End file.
